


Strangers, Passing

by PositivelyVexed



Category: True Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secrets, let's say the AU shook things up, liberties are taken with the canon timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28555119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivelyVexed/pseuds/PositivelyVexed
Summary: Roland knows this man, recognizes those hollowed cheeks and sheepdog eyes. The man’s eyes have gone to Wayne first. It’s like the moment after being thrown from a bull, when he hasn’t hit the ground yet, but he can see it hurtling towards him.The man shifts his gaze from Wayne to Roland. His mouth opens. Roland can see the jolt of surprise across his face.Roland moves fast. “Mr. Purcell, we’re with the Arkansas State Police. I’m Detective West, this is my partner, Detective Hays. We’re here to help find your kids.”a.k.a. that one where Tom and Roland met at a gay bar first.
Relationships: One-sided Wayne Hays/Roland West, Tom Purcell/Roland West
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14
Collections: Scoot McNairy's Forehead Veins Appreciation Society Secret Santa Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonbobjohnson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbobjohnson/gifts).



> Moonbob asked for 1980 fic, hurt/comfort, and minor AUs. Moonbob, I’m not sure this is what you had in mind when you asked for a minor AU that changed one small thing, but the idea popped in my head and wouldn’t leave me alone, so here it is. I hope you enjoy it!

_Tom Purcell._

It’s a name that doesn’t mean anything to him.

The officer continues. “Two kids. Will and Julie, twelve and ten. Supposed to be home by five-thirty. Never arrived.”

The taste of mint gum clashes with the aftertaste of whiskey. He briefly considers cinnamon gum for the future. Crossing the lawn, the night air’s sobering him up fast. It must have dropped twenty degrees since the sun set.

Kids aren’t going to stay outside long on a night like this. At the thought, he lays eyes on the kids' father. The man’s standing, back to them, talking with two deputies from the sheriff’s department. There’s a curl of cigarette smoke twisting around him. He's wearing a flannel shirt with no jacket, gesticulating fast, seemingly indifferent to the cold himself. Roland puts himself in people mode, clears his throat and hopes the smell of alcohol on their breath is gone by now. The father turns to face them.

Roland thinks, _shit._

 _This_ is Tom Purcell.

Roland knows this man, recognizes those hollowed cheeks and sheepdog eyes. The man’s eyes have gone to Wayne first. It’s like the moment after being thrown from a bull, when he hasn’t hit the ground yet, but he can see it hurtling towards him.

The man shifts his gaze from Wayne to Roland. His mouth opens. Roland can see the jolt of surprise across his face.

Roland moves fast. “Mr. Purcell, we’re with the Arkansas State Police. I’m Detective West, this is my partner, Detective Hays. We’re here to help find your kids.”

It’s a relief how smooth it comes out.

Tom blinks at Roland. There's disbelief and barely restrained panic behind his eyes, but he's controlling it, thank God. He clenches his fists at his side, something Roland hopes Wayne doesn't notice.

"You _are_ Mr. Purcell, right?" Roland asks, filling up the unbearable silence.

"Y-yeah." Tom tears his eyes from Roland's face and recovers himself. Wraps his arms around his waist like he's just now noticing the cold. “‘Bout time detectives got here. They give you my statement already? You know what happened to my kids?”

"We're going to find out," Wayne says. All calm authority.

Roland nods, trying to project the same. “Why don’t you walk us through what happened?”

* * *

The skinny guy with the mop of dark curls and the unfortunate mustache sat hedged into the corner of a booth, thumbnail working fretfully on the label of his bottle, eyes fixed on the TV above the bar.

Roland watched him. Jumpy bastard. Guessed he couldn’t blame him. This was the sort of place the city officers liked to joke about having raided regularly less than ten years ago, before the city finally decided it had better things to spend its police budget on.

“Faggot-ass college town,” one of the city beat cops had said to him one day, concluding some rant about how times had changed.

“That faggot-ass college town signs your paycheck, don’t it?” Roland’d asked.

“Till I can move up to state police. They hiring yet?”

Roland had said they weren’t, and afterwards, had put in a word with his bosses to make sure they never were. Wayne had had a good laugh about that. He’d had his own run-ins with the city cops. Not that he knew Roland’s reasons for hating this one. Didn’t know his partner took it personally, the faggot-bashing talk.

No telling what Wayne’d think about all this, about Roland sitting in Fayetteville’s one queer bar on a Thursday afternoon. Roland snorted into his whiskey. Wayne’d been recurring in his thoughts an awful lot lately. Maybe that’s what had driven him here on a weekday.

He wondered what Wayne would think about _that_ , then let out a bitter, drunken bark of a laugh that made the bartender look up at him.

It was too early for the bar to have more than a handful of patrons. There were a few college students at a table near him talking. One of the boys kept trying to catch Roland’s eye, but somewhere when he hadn’t been looking he’d passed into the realm of too old for that shit.

He avoided the kid’s gaze but his eyes kept wandering towards the sad-looking guy in the booth, smoking a cigarette and sitting stiff and uncomfortable as if he was waiting for a train.

The guy glanced away from the TV and caught him looking. Roland offered a smile, but the man dropped his gaze, scowling.

No luck there.

Roland returned to his drink. When he got up for another one, this time he caught the dark-haired guy staring at him, who looked dutifully embarrassed to be caught as he reverted his eyes up to the TV.

Roland wasn’t really interested in doing anything with a guy who seemed determined to pretend he was at a sports bar, but the bar was dead enough that he couldn't help noticing every time that he'd lift his eyes that the guy would be staring at him. Each time he seemed to get a bit braver, meeting Roland's eyes a bit longer.

He craned his neck, trying to catch sight of the baseball game the other man seemed to be following. He’d chosen a lousy spot for it. He glanced at the other man’s booth. Roland picked up his drink and sauntered over, stopping in front of the man’s booth. The guy had watched him get up, but as soon as Roland approached, he'd sucked in a breath. 

“You watching the game?”

The man worked his jaw silently a second, like he was trying to decide between answering and running. “Yeah,” he forced out gruffly. “The Cardinals are throwing it away again.”

He was new to this, Roland would bet money on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man’s knuckles clenching white around his beer bottle, but he kept looking at Roland with something like fascination.

“You managed to find the only seat in here with a decent view of the TV,” Roland said, flashing the easy smile he’d learned worked well on girls back in high school.

The man eyed Roland up like a man trying to decide if the dealer offering to sell him a teenth of coke was really a cop. The comparison almost made Roland laugh against his will. The man seemed to make up his mind. He slid over slowly in the booth, making enough room for two. Kept his eyes on the ball game.

Roland slid in beside him. He could feel the man stiffen up beside him. He could feel the heat and tension wafting off him like a funk. 

Roland took the next commercial break to offer his name.

The other man stared at the hand Roland held out, hesitated. When he finally took it, his slender hand was more calloused and strong that Roland had expected.

“Tom,” he said.

The game played on a low murmur on the grainy TV as they sat together, watching it with an uneasy intensity. Roland couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched a baseball game so closely, murmuring appreciatively at every good play. Doing it this way seemed to loosen Tom up a bit. By the next beer they were speculating on when Boyer would be out as GM, and who would replace him. He noticed the guy was putting away beers at a steady clip, though he seemed able to hold it well enough.

At some point after the seventh inning stretch, Tom had mellowed out beside him enough to stretch out his legs under the table and and slumped in his seat, gazing at Roland with lidded eyes. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” he said, looking with intent curiosity at Roland.

“I’m from Texas.”

Tom squinted sideways at him, his face softening by a degree. “I grew up near Galveston. For three years, anyway.”

“No shit? Good for you.” Roland leaned back in his seat. “West Texas man, myself. Don’t think I could hack the humidity on the coast.”

Tom shrugged. “I miss it, sometimes.”

He let his knee brush up against Roland’s.

The new guy was loosening up, although it seemed like it’d taken his share of drinks to do so. He wondered if the guy would stay so mellow afterward. Decided, hell, he was drunk too, and lonely, and what was life, without taking a few chances. “I got a better TV than this. We could talk more back at my place,” he murmured. 

That was all it took for Tom to jerk upright, like a spell had been broken. He cast his eyes around the bar, like he was looking for an answer.

“Look, I ain’t--” He bit his lip. “I just came in here to drink.”

Fair enough. Message received.

Roland lifted his whiskey and finished it in one draught. “I understand. Thanks for letting me watch the game with you.”

“Yeah. Sorry if you… got the wrong idea about me. I ain't-I ain't that--”

Roland set the tumbler down a little too hard on the table and stood. “Sure.”

Rejection he could take, but he wasn't in the mood to be bullshitted. He turned on his heel, and left the barroom before Tom could say another word.

He stopped in the can before leaving. Alone in the stall, he tried to clear his head, annoyed at his own disappointment. _And this is why you didn’t try to pick up jumpy assholes who look like this is their first rodeo._ Like it wasn’t just as hard for any of them, stepping inside here, admitting what they really wanted….

It wasn’t his business, when some guy figured himself out, but the sting was still there, still snagging on old hurts he tried to keep buried. When had he gotten so shitty at chasing men? he wondered. It’d been easier in the army, when getting blasted out of their minds when they weren’t on duty was a survival mechanism, and plenty of men would say a hand in the dark was just a hand in the dark, it was all the same when there were no better options around. Who knew. Most of them had probably meant it, left that shit behind when they got back stateside.

The familiar flood of shame and loneliness washed over him. He forced a laugh. Jesus, he was taking rejection personally. Chock this one up to whiskey and horniness and being hung up on his straight-as-an-arrow partner. He hadn't been that into the guy anyway. 

Standing in front of the sink and washing his hands, he hoped the surly, curly-haired bastard would be gone when he left so he wouldn’t have to walk by him. The bathroom door door swung open behind him. He looked up in the mirror. Tom stood in the doorway, frowning. He looked like he was frozen to the spot.

Roland turned the faucet off. “I was just finishing up in here. It’s all yours."

Tom didn’t move. His eyes were more unfocused than the last time he’d seen them, and Roland idly wondered if the guy had downed another shot between then and now.

His brows knit together in a troubled frown, and Roland noted the crease between his eyes crinkled into an _x_. “I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression out there,” he said doubtfully. He was very drunk. He was also staring at Roland’s face like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Roland felt a kind of heat burning under his collar at the naked attention. “ _Did_ you give me the wrong impression?”

He was only dimly surprised when Tom moved toward him, but Tom still knocked the wind out of him, closing his hands around his lapels and pushing him back against the mirror. Roland felt his back hit the lip of the sink, the weight and heat of the other man pressed up against him.

He had a moment to take in Tom’s face, his downturned mouth, his worried eyes searching every inch of Roland’s mouth. Then Tom kissed him.

It was shocking enough that he did nothing for a second, then his hands snaked around Tom’s waist and hooked into his belt loops, pulling their hips together. The force of it made Tom moan into his mouth. He could already feel Tom’s cock, hard and warm against his thigh through his jeans. An answering pulse of longing throbbed between his legs.

Roland forced himself to get control of his thoughts, for both their sakes. Unless they wanted to start going at it right in the middle of the men’s room, where anyone could walk in on them, he needed to pump the breaks. Not that they’d be the first, he suspected, but he guessed that was the sort of thing that'd send Tom skittering away again.

“Hey,” he said, breaking the kiss. He flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though Tom wouldn't meet his eyes. “Come back to my place.”

Tom's face clouded, and he shook his head.

He ignored the sinking feeling in his gut, and gestured around them. “You don’t want to stay here, do you? Hell, if you’re more comfortable, we could go to y--”

“No.” Tom pulled away, looking around him like a man coming out of a daze. He looked at them in the mirror, the tableau they made together in a cracked and foggy mirror, and the disgust bloomed on his face. When he turned back, he couldn’t even meet Roland’s eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn't--”

Not just disgust, Roland realized. Guilt. He would have liked to think he hadn’t spent six years working his way up to detective to not recognize a cheater standing before him, but hell, who knew. He’d been enough of a dumbass that he hadn’t seen it sooner. No wedding ring, but that was no excuse. But looking at the man now, unable to meet his eyes and shame turning his face red, he could see it written plain to see. Some dutiful wife who didn’t know how he was, waiting at home for him. Maybe a kid or a baby.

“Jesus, man." He couldn’t hide the dismay in his voice, like it was any business of his. Hell, he was one to talk. Like he’d never disappointed a woman before. He softened, released his grip on Tom's belt loops, and put a hand on his chest to push him gently away. “Go home to your family.”

Tom flinched, taking a step back. “I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t know what I was thinking--”

Roland raised his hands. “No judgement, man.”

He’d seen enough men start swinging their fists once they stop thinking with their dicks, once the blood started rushing back to their brains, and the shame with it, but Tom didn’t look like he was drifting that way. Tom was just staring at him, that same star-shaped crease between his brows.

“They don’t--this was a mistake."

“Okay,” Roland said, feeling a twist of sympathy. Goddammit. “No hard feelings.”

Tom opened his mouth to speak, looking like he wanted to apologize, but just turned and let the door swing shut behind him. Roland let him go, feeling sorrier for the guy than he had planned to. He still felt a frustrating ache of want pulsing between his legs.

Back out in the bar he ordered another drink, trying not to think about the memory of warm lips on his neck and calloused hands on his arms. Even as the bar started to fill up as it got dark, his mood must have shown, because no one approached him.

He went home after he’d sobered up enough that there was no chance of any cop pulling him over. He hadn’t been back to the bar since.

He’d put poor, lying-to-himself Tom and his long-suffering wife and family out of his mind too.

Until now, when the man himself is standing between Roland and his partner, police lights strobing his front lawn, expecting them to find his missing kids.

* * *

Roland’s grateful when Wayne takes charge, starts handing out orders to the other assembled cops like they’re back in ‘Nam.

Tom has slumped down onto the cold concrete lip of the porch, watching as officers disperse to drag the neighborhood. He’s huddled up against one of the rails on the front porch, looking lost and forlorn.

Roland thinks he’s going to take a swing at him when Roland asks if he can take them through the house, but he just runs his hand through his hair, looking up at him with bleary eyes. Tom swallows whatever words he’s thinking and lets them in the house. “That’s Julie’s room,” he says, pointing. “And that’s Will’s.”

“This you and your wife’s bedroom?” He says it without much thought. Internally, he’s thinking, wife probably ran off with the kids. At least it won’t be any great mystery as to why.

Tom’s face has a sour flash of defensiveness to it. “My wife’s.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t really need to.

He may have made second base with the man the first time they met, but going through the man’s house, seeing how he lives and where he sleeps on the couch, turning out his kid’s rooms, feels far more uncomfortably intimate.

Wayne closes the two of them up in Julie’s room, away from Tom, first chance he gets. Wayne ain’t blind, that much has always been clear. It's always been one of Roland's favorite things about the man. But it's a problem, now.

“You know him?” Wayne asks.

“Hm?” Roland says. He keeps looking through the stash of colored pencil drawings he found on Julie’s desk, not making eye contact.

“The father. Looked like you knew him.”

He pauses like he's just now giving it thought. Wonders if he's as shitty an actor as he feels like. “Yeah, maybe. Face was kind of familiar.”

Wayne shoots him some inscrutable look. “Could be important, you can figure out where you know him from.”

“I see a lot of faces in this line of work.” Goddamn, way to sound just like the kind of perp they would both take joy in sweating out in the box.

“I’m not asking you to remember every face. Just this one.”

“I said I’m working on it,” Roland says, feeling irrationally defensive on behalf of his faulty-memory-that-ain’t.

Wayne backs off, but he’s gazing across Julie Purcell’s closet like he thinks he’s back surveying the Mekong Delta. “He looked spooked to see you.”

“Yeah, he did,” Roland says, trying to sound a bit puzzled. He wonders how he got to this point, lying to his own partner to cover up for a potential suspect in a missing persons case. “Maybe he stole a parking spot from me once. Tried to pick a fight over the jukebox. Who knows.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Wayne looks at him with those soldier’s eyes boring into his soul.

He’s saved from any more lying because at that moment, Mrs. Purcell returns home. He and Wayne are pulled out of the room by the sound of a woman shouting at Tom, and he finds himself stepping into the fray once she starts laying into Tom with her purse, putting himself between the two of them, like he’s Tom’s defender. That poor patient wife of Tom’s he’d conjured in his imagination doesn’t match the reality of Lucy Purcell one bit. He learns real fast, for one, that she’s been stepping out on him, which seems to be an open secret. It should maybe make him feel better about his own small part in inserting himself into their extramarital affairs, but it doesn’t really.

She glowers at him, sees him staring at her, and rolls her eyes. “What are you looking at?” she snaps.

Roland doesn’t have a good answer for that.

* * *

By midnight, the police cruisers have stopped trawling through the neighborhood with their lights flashing. The troopers are on the front lawn, making plans among themselves to reconvene in the morning. Wayne’s going into LRRP-mode, Roland can see it in his eyes, and he’ll bet the man ain’t going home at anything like a reasonable hour.

Roland lets himself out the back door of the Purcell place, and lights a cigarette. A shadow stirs a few feet away, and takes a drag on its own cigarette, resolving itself into the sight of Tom Purcell, slouching on a bench in the backyard.

“You come out here to join me?”

“Just came out for a smoke,” Roland says, declining to mention that he had seen Tom disappear out here a half hour ago.

“Some reason you couldn’t smoke out front?”

Roland takes a long drag while Tom watches him warily, his curls halfway to standing up on end from being dragged through his fingers so many times. “I thought maybe we could talk,” he says, keeping his voice low, and casting his eyes around the property. Just checking to make sure there's no one else within earshot.

“I got nothing to say, unless it's about you finding my kids.”

Roland sighs. “Come on, man. You knows what it's about.”

Tom jumps to his feet, makes to stalk away, but Roland catches him by the wrist, which stops Tom dead in his tracks. Roland releases him, apologetically. Tom sinks back into the bench and drags his hands through his hair. He speaks low, so low Roland has to strain to hear him. “I shouldn’t have--I’ve been praying for forgiveness everyday since that night--”

“Hey, I ain't here to guilt you about that.”

“I didn’t know you were a cop.” He looks up, like something's just occurred to him. “Did you ask for this case?”

“Jesus man, you really think that? I didn't know who you were till I got here. They just called us for back-up.”

Tom sighed. “Some luck.”

“If there’s anything you haven’t told us, Mr. Purcell, now’s the time. I’m on your side. But if you’re keeping secrets, we need to know them. I’ll do everything I can to make sure you don’t-”

Tom raises his head tentatively, his brow furrowed like it’s hurting him. “Like what? What to you think-?”

“Has there been anyone around the house?” He hates himself for asking. “Anyone you don’t want to mention to the rest of the force?”

“What?” The baffled look is replaced with slow-dawning understanding. “No. Jesus, no. You think I’d bring someone around here? Someone who wanted-” He swallows.

Roland is suddenly wondering if he’s going to have to explain to the Arkansas PD why Tom Purcell took a swing at him.

Tom leans in close, hissing low. “You have to believe me. There hasn’t been anyone else. Not since--” He squeezes his eyes shut, and this time, he steps back, eyes showing wet with tears. “I’m sorry. I fucked everything up.”

Roland wants to reach out to clasp his hand, but he’s intensely aware of what a bad idea that is. “Hey, I believe you, all right? I just had to ask. Listen," he sinks to his knees. "I’ll do everything I can to find your kids, okay, Mr. Purcell? But I need your help.”

A tentative nod. "Okay. Look, I don’t care what happens to me. Ask me anything. You can tell everyone and lock me up for public indecency at the end of this. You just find my kids first. Please.”

Roland realizes he wants nothing more, in that moment, to give him some kind of reassurance he will find his kids. To stop the hurting. He can’t offer that, so he offers the only thing he can.

“You ain’t going anywhere. What happened, happened. It stays between you and me.”

* * *

They find Will less than a day later. Well, Wayne was the one who did the finding. That means it’s Roland’s turn to do the rest. Fair is fair.

Roland doesn’t remember much about knocking on the family door. He knows Margaret’s the one who answers, and something must be showing on his face, because her hand goes to her mouth, and she rushes to Lucy’s side on the couch. No one’s at Tom’s side at all when he gets the news; he’s sitting alone in the recliner, head in his hands even before he looks up to see Roland standing there, grim news on his face.

Roland does his job. He’s done it before.

Afterward, Tom jumps to his feet and slams the door outside. Roland is tempted to follow him outside, but he can’t bring himself to do that.

He wishes he hadn’t been at that bar that night. If there’s nothing he could have done to return his son to him alive, he wishes he could have at least never brought this extra knife twist of secrecy and fear into the man’s life. It’d be a piddling comfort, compared to the enormity of the loss this family faces, but he wishes he could do something all the same.

* * *

They pick Tom Purcell up on the side of the road, halfway through chasing down leads; he’s three miles from home. Lucy had dropped him off at work. He was planning to hitch a ride back home with one of the guys from work, but he never made it to the end of his work shift.

Roland swears to God he doesn’t remember which of them pivoted from talking about why Lucy has the car for the day to asking about the man’s marriage. He wants to believe it was Wayne, though he can’t say for sure. He hasn’t been thinking clearly, lately. Maybe he’s the asshole who first brought their marriage up.

Tom doesn’t look them in the eye as he tells how they’d been near strangers, kept together by the kids. Always comes back to the kids. Wayne winces and stares straight ahead as Tom starts to cry. The whole thing leaves Roland feeling like a real piece of shit, and a useless one at that. It doesn’t stop there, though. After they drop Tom off, he decides to fill the silence.

“You know I finally figured out where I’d seen him before.”

“Yeah?”

“In a bar in Fayetteville a few months back.”

Wayne turned his head to him. “What bar?”

“That trucker bar out by the airport,” he said calmly, resisting the urge the look at Wayne. “The one where they busted that big biker gang back in '78."

“Huh. What happened?”

“Nothing. We talked about the game, he was drunk. Overheard me telling this woman I was a cop, said he didn’t like cops and tried to take a swing at me.”

Wayne scoffs. “That it?” He chews his thumbnail and looks out the window. "Hm. That’s some luck; the cop you took a swing at catching your case.“

“Yeah. Well. Tom Purcell doesn’t seem to have much luck.” His chest feel like there’s something heavy sitting on it. Like Tom really did land a punch, and there’s a sore spot every breath he takes thinking about the man.

“You take a swing back at him?”

“Nah, man. You’ve seen him; wouldn’t be much of a fight.”

Wayne glances sidelong at him. “So?”

“Fuck you man, I fight fair.” 

Wayne looks at him, shakes his head. “Bet it would have impressed that lady you were chatting up.”

Roland lets out a short, bitter laugh and smirks. “I got other ways of charming a woman. Don't need to resort to violence.” Ignores the sick feeling in his stomach.

Wayne looks out the window, shaking his head. “Sure.”

It’s a pathetic lie, but it seems to work, at least that day.

* * *

There’s a second town hall held in West Finger not long after. Roland and Wayne are both there scrutinizing the assembled townspeople, on the theory that the killer might show up to incriminate themselves in the middle of the entire town. It's not much, but they don't have much to go on. Neither of them expect to see the Purcells there. Anyone would forgive them for not showing, so soon after their son's death, but there in the back row is Tom, his arms crossed across his chest and his face stony, eyes staring right through the flag at the front of the hall like it ain’t even there.

It's a slow meeting, Roland keeping his eye on potential suspects, till the townspeople stand up and start asking what the DA’s planning to do to make sure none of their kids end up like the unfortunate Purcell kids. At some, point, Tom leans forward like he's going to be sick to his stomach. Roland can see his back shaking from where he’s stationed, and it makes him want to stand up, tell everyone to back off, remember that they’ve got one of the parents here, but he can't draw more attention to Tom. When the next blue collar asshole stands up, demands to know who’s going to clean the junkies and degenerates out of Devil’s Den, he can see Tom trembling with barely restrained tension. A few people cast pitying looks his way, but no one reaches out to touch him: like tragedy is catching. When the talk turns to staffing adult volunteers at school bus stops, Tom gets up and walks out, the side door slamming shut beside him. The rest of the town pretends not to notice him.

He sighs, and exchanges glances with Wayne. Wayne nods. That's all Roland needs to follow Tom out the door.

Outside, it’s cold, and he can’t find Tom. The man's car is still there in the parking lot, though.

“Mr. Purcell?” he calls softly.

Faintly, he hears the sound of someone being sick. He follows it behind the community center. “Mr. Purcell,” he repeats, louder.

He turns the corner in time to see Tom staggering to his feet, hand on the wall steadying him, dragging his other hand across his mouth. There’s a look of disgust on his face, and Roland looks away from the mess at his feet.

“Leave me alone,” he says.

“I’ll drive you home."

“I can drive, dammit. I ain’t drunk. Just can’t keep anything down these days.” He grits his teeth, and mutters, low, “Get lost before someone sees us.”

“I'm the officer assigned to your case,” he reminds him, gently.

"And, what, you looking for my son's killer behind the community center? You ain't assigned to babysit me."

Roland falls back. "All right. Have a good night, Mr. Purcell."

Tom looks surprised, but keeps walking. He's hurrying along with his hands in his pockets, when a couple of shadows that have been smoking by one of the larger pick up trucks in the lot peel away from the truck.

"Hey, Tom? Tom, that you?"

Three men in flannel and trucker hats are standing together. The tallest of the men is holding out a hand. There's a pale envelope out in it, the kind a sympathy card comes in. “Shit, didn't expect you to show. Linda really wanted to make sure I passed along this. Extent our family's condolences, you know.”

Tom stopped dead in his tracks a few paces from the men, staring at them.

“Condolences?” His voice is flat.

One of them rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “Real shame. We're all thinking of you down at the shop.”

Tom says, clearly, “You got to be kidding me.”

“Come on, Tom. We’re a community, we come together--”

“Fuck off, Carl. I know it was you, all right? Spreading rumors about me." His face is cold, hard. "Telling the whole shop I’m some kind of fag?”

The man held up his hands, eyes wide, greeting card forgotten. “Woah. Tom. That's a hell of an accusation to throw around-”

Tom barks a laugh, sounding wild. “What the fuck you say to Wilson, man? I can’t go back to work now because of you. How’m I supposed to live?”

“Hey, none of us got you fired. You quit, man.”

Tom’s looking between them, so mad he’s shaking. “Yeah, Joe? That your way of admitting it?”

Joe's face is changing, all joviality lost. The man weighs about twice as much as Tom, which is very clear with Tom up in his face like he is. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I’m sorry about your kid, but unless you want to claim you got lost on your way into a queer club--”

“You sorry? Get me my fucking job back, huh? How about that?”

Roland hears his feet pounding on the asphalt him before he’s even aware that he’s halfway to a run. Roland catches Tom’s arm right before he can swings it at the barrel of Joe’s chest.

“Hey now. Mr. Purcell, can I trouble you for your time?" Roland asks. Nods at the men, flashes a badge. “I got some questions I need to ask--”

"You need to learn to shut your mouth, Tom."

“How about everybody leave me alone?” Tom said, shaking loose from Roland taking a few steps back.

“Hey, you saw,” the other man wearing a Body Works jacket with the name Carl stitched on a patch over the chest. “He started hassling us. We were just extending our sympathies.”

“Fuck you both,” Tom says.

Roland’s clasping an arm around him, and he’s turning to look at Roland like he’s ready to bite.

“Come on, Mr. Purcell. Let’s get you to your car.”

Tom makes a futile effort at struggling, but he lets himself be pulled along in Roland's wake.

The men glare at him, but they don’t do anything about it, just stand there in the cold as he steers Tom to his car. Roland nearly gets him in the driver’s seat, and then, rethinking it, steers him around to the passenger’s seat.

"You really want to be seen driving me home?” Tom says once he's in the passenger seat, and Roland's beside him, adjusting the mirrors.

"We got nothing to hide." He checks his mirrors. "Far as anyone else knows."

Tom sighs, and puts his head in his hands and his hand on his knees. "You don't, maybe."

There's no good answer to that, so Roland just asks, “When’s the last time you slept?”

Tom frowns at his shoes, his glare crumpling on his face before he can answer. Roland wants to reach out to him, but at that moment he's painfully aware of the stream of West Finger residents trickling out the double doors of the community center as the town hall lets out. He sees Wayne appear on the sidewalk, and waves at him, pointing at Tom’s car, and mimes driving. Wayne seems to get it, since he waves them on. Roland can see he’s already making a beeline for that schoolteacher, Miss Reardon. Probably won't mind Roland getting lost one bit with her around.

He starts the car, and pulls it out of the parking lot before the rush of cars pulling out can trap them in.

When they’re safely out on the road together, Roland says, softly. “Why’d you come here tonight? Nobody expected you to show.”

“I didn’t want to be in that house, man." 

Roland can't argue with that.

“Those guys,” he said, as they drove along the darkened streets of West Finger. “Your co-workers. That bar they saw you at--”

“Yeah. That one. That time.” Tom rolls his head against the headrest to stare out the window. “They were just walking by, on their way to a game or something, and look who comes strolling out. Thought it was fucking hilarious."

"Shit, man." He pauses. "I'm sorry."

"Wasn't your fault."

Except it feels like it was. Tom was leaving him when he walked out that door. If Roland hadn't even been there that day, who was to say what would have happened? He could have taken his secret with him to the grave. He pulls into the driveway a few minutes later, looking sidelong at Tom. Wanting to offer something, something other than a home with a wife who can’t stand him, and the ghosts of two kids haunting them both. He's frozen in his seat, though, remembering what happened the last time he asked Tom back to his place. Tom must be thinking about the same thing, because he says, “Your co-workers don’t know about you? No one knows about you?”

Roland shrugs. “No. Don’t think so.” He hates it. That Tom is alone in this too, even though by rights he shouldn’t be. "Still in good standing."

"Good. Find my daughter, Detective West." Tom raises his eyes to him, sad and haunted, looking at him, like he’s too tired to look at anything else. “And take care of yourself out there, too,” he says. Like Roland’s the one who needs looking after.


	2. Chapter 2

He and Wayne put miles on his car, chasing leads cross-county. They always end up back at the house on Shoepick Lane. Sometimes it seems they spend more time there than their office, sifting through the detritus of two kids' lives and cataloging every scrap of it. Their toys and drawings and sock drawers. And at the end of the night, they end up standing around the kitchen, drinking cold coffee with the Purcells.

Lucy throwing scowls across the room at all of them, growing quieter and more sullen by the day. Tom’s usually smoking, fingers usually trembling as he brings his cigarette up to his lips, eyes hollower and duller each time Roland sees him.

The secret he and Tom share is always hovering, just out of sight, but close enough that you could pluck it out of the air.

Today Roland’s telling them that their kids was never friends with Ronnie Boyle. That they were meeting up with someone else. Tom’s taking it badly, he can see, in the way his fists are tensed, shaking in his lap. Roland feels the useless urge to catch one of them in his own hand, grip it tight.

“They were meeting somebody?” Tom asks, voice cracking.

This entire family’s got secrets.

__

Roland’s contact in Vice puts them on the trail of some pervert who might be their man. He and Wayne decide to give him a proper introduction to the advanced interrogation techniques of the Arkansas State Police out in a barn where no one can hear what goes down.

It feels good to hit something. Feels better to know it’s someone who deserves all that and worse. But it becomes clear that no amount of pounding the shit out of him’s going to make him their man. They’ve got no choice but to dump him off at the side of the road after putting the fear of God in him, back to square one.

Before they uncuff him from the barn post, the sonofabitch has the bright idea to try and make a belated case for his character. “I got a girlfriend, you know,” he says. “I ain’t some kind of faggot.”

Roland puts all his weight into a blow to his ribs, feeling some kind of useless satisfaction as the man howls.

__

Wayne’s in his element on this case. He doesn’t say anything to Roland about it, but you just have to look at him to see it. Standing straight and tall, tireless, got those cool eyes always focused in the middle distance, like a man immersed in a hunt. Like this is why he took this job.

Roland can’t remember why he took this job. A halfway decent pension, maybe. Might have been some bullshit about helping people, who knows. He doesn’t feel like he’s helping anyone right now.

He’s started helping himself to a drink or two to fall asleep most nights. He feels like he’s earned it. A drink or two turns into half a bottle. He’s not sure he’s earned that, but he needs it if he wants to be worth a damn in the morning.

All of which is to say that he’s gearing his way towards drunk when he gets the call from The Sawhorse.

__

His first bleary thought when some bartender calls him to tell him Tom Purcell is here and Roland needs to come collect him is paranoia, which goes to show how addled his brain is getting by secrecy. Of course no one at the Sawhorse knows a damn thing about his extracurricular activities, or how he once got halfway to knowing Tom Purcell in the biblical sense in a one-stall bathroom and how that seems to have birthed a weird sense of responsibility to the man. They’re actually calling ‘cause he gave the owner, Jay, his card back when he and Wayne interviewed him, and now the bar needs an officer to take come a drunk and disorderly Tom Purcell home.

Refusing doesn’t feel like a possibility.

Tom Purcell is sprawled half on the floor in the backroom where they keep the safe, laid out on the floor with a busted lip, glaring up at everyone in the room. The sight of him stirs something--a tightening in his chest, and the sudden urge to put himself between the rest of the bar and Tom. Tom sees him, and his brows draw together for a moment, but he must be getting over the shock of seeing Roland showing up when the police are called, or just too scraped raw to react much, because he just looks tired. Roland can relate to that.

Roland half-listens to the story of how Tom went in swinging against smug-faced Jay for slipping it to his wife, and the story makes his chest ache for Tom, at the useless bravado of it all. Though listening to the man talk, Roland’s coming around to the idea that Jay’s got one hell of a punchable face, and Roland probably have done the same if he were in Tom’s unlucky shoes.

Finally, Roland steps forward Tom’s unfocused eyes lock on his. Roland holds out a hand up. Swallows just a bit and hesitates a second before grasping it.

__

Tom slumps against the passenger’s side, his tongue flicking out to touch his busted lip, like he’s reminding himself of the hurt.

Roland considers filling the car up with empty chatter, but can’t think of a damn thing to say that isn’t steering them into a minefield.

Tom breaks the silence. “Like I don’t see you enough,” he says hoarsely, throat rough from alcohol.

Roland clenches and unclenches his jaw, tempted to snap, _If you hadn’t punched that asshole in his own bar you wouldn’t have had to._

Tom starts tapping his foot on the floor out of time. “You ain’t found my daughter--” he mutters towards the window. “But you’re fucking always around, always in my house. Keep shoving yourself in my face. You enjoying this?”

“This how you’re gonna be, man?”

Tom’s mouth twists and says nothing.

Roland sighs. “Shit, I don’t get anything out of watching you hurt, Mr. Purcell. What kind of man do you take me for?”

Tom’s foot stops tapping. Then his whole face is crumpling and he’s turning to Roland. “I’m sorry,” he breaths. “I shouldn’t have talked like that to you. I just… everything’s wrong. Can’t handle this,” he waves vaguely. “Can’t handle any of it.”

He feels like there’s an iron band tightening around his chest. “S'alright, man. No one should have to go through what you’re going through,” he murmurs. If he’s drinking half-bottles to get through each day, he can’t imagine what Tom’s going through, just trying to survive this.

Tom makes a choked sound, and Roland realizes he’s trying, and mostly failing, not cry. His voice all tension, a raw cord pulled taut. “I can’t go back there. That house. Don’t take me back there.”

The image of house on Shoepick Lane rears into his mind. He’s pictured it a few times, when he and Wayne have called it a day, what they’re leaving behind in that still, hollowed-out home. He pictures nights in the house, Lucy alone in the marital bed, and Tom turning restlessly on his couch in the dark.

Tom must be thinking along similar lines. “Can’t handle those empty rooms, man. Keep tricking myself into thinking I can hear them moving around in there.”

Roland’s carefully silent.

“You know, Will’d fall asleep with the light on, always reading. You couldn’t tell that boy to turn the lights out and go to bed, he’d be right back a minute later with them on again. Got in a fight with Lucy. I just wanted to keep them lights on. I know it’s stupid, but it feels a little like they’re still there.”

Roland’s silent. Lets him speak, a man who needs to get the words out.

“She blew up over it, starts screaming that they’re gone and they’re never coming back--” the words dissolve into a choking sound in the back of his throat. “I can’t go back there tonight.”

Some part of his brain is sounding warning bells. Roland considers offering the man a jail cell, but he can’t stand the thought. Tom, in this state, raw as an open wound, spending the night in the tank with every belligerent tough guy and petty criminal that might get hauled in off the street tonight. They'd eat him alive.

“You don’t got to go home, Mr. Purcell,” he says, the words coming out smoother than he expect. “I got a couch.”

Tom goes still. And it’s hard not to imagine what he’s thinking. All the contingencies and risks run through his head. Roland’s thinking through them too. But he can’t send the man back to his empty home like this. “Just a place to crash,” he says lightly. “Get a shower, whatever you need. Like a YMCA, but no one's gonna steal your stuff. You can be on your way in the morning.”

Tom nods, slowly, eyes boring into the side of his face. “All right.”

__

Tom squints around the apartment with a frown, taking in the rustic furniture and the minor clutter. The dinner plate and glass of whiskey are still on the coffee table where he left them when Jay called. Tom’s eyes slide off the near-empty whiskey bottle that’s sitting there beside the glass. Roland supposes it would be only fair if he chose to stare, inspect Roland’s place as thoroughly as Roland has his, but he doesn’t, eyes sliding to the floor.

Roland sweeps the dishes and bottle off the table and into the kitchen, taking a moment to put the whiskey in the cabinet above the fridge.

When he returns, Tom’s still standing there in the entryway, his jacket drawn tight around him. He nods. “This the couch I been hearing so much about?”

“The very same. Fallen asleep on it myself plenty, I can vouch for it. Blankets and pillow are over in the corner.”

Tom doesn’t move. Roland bustles around the room, grabbing pillows and blankets himself and piling them on the couch. When he’s done, he looks at Tom, who’s frowning at a carved horse across the room.

“I don’t think it’s my best woodcarving, but it’s one of my first, and I guess I’m attached it.”

“I always meant to learn woodworking. My dad took it up after he retired, always wanted to show me some things. But I never had time for it with the family and all.” He snorts, looks away.

Roland’s got no idea what to say to that, but he feels anxious to say something to fill the void, to be a host.

“You get hungry, help yourself to any food in the kitchen. Got a stack of cards in that side drawer if you can’t fall asleep just yet. Might even have a book or two lying around worth reading.”

Tom finally steps into the living room and sits heavily on the couch. “Think I’m just going to sleep.”

“Good idea. I’m pretty beat myself. Give a holler if you need anything.”

He crosses the room to his bedroom, but is stopped by Tom calling after him. “Detective West,” he says, looking uncomfortable when Roland turns and looks at him. “Uh, thank you.”

He flashes a weak smile. “No problem.”

__

His sleep is thin and restless, and it’s interrupted altogether a few hours later. He squints into the dark, trying to figure out what woke him. He doesn’t wonder for long, before a low moan comes from the living room. Tom. Of course the guy has nightmares.

He lies face-up, staring at the ceiling, and whispers a prayer to nothing in particular that whatever dreams tormenting Tom will pass. Surely the man deserves to catch a break this once. Finally, silence. He lets himself hope that’s enough. Then, like a pointed refustation, a hoarse, drawn out cry comes from the living room.

It feels indecent to listen in on, but there’s no blocking it out.

He knows the kinds of dreams that causes noises like that. Knows he’d want out of them, if he were Tom. He knows, vaguely, that Tom probably won’t be pleased if he wakes him. He doesn’t want Tom to think--

Another choked off cry cuts through the air.

Fuck it, he decides. He rises and heads down the hall.

Tom’s tangled in the blankets he piled on, and he’s writhing like some kind of snake. It’s eerie, and it feels vaguely voyeuristic, looking at a man in a state of too much vulnerability.

He crosses the room and kneels to lay a had on him. Tom jerks against the touch to his shoulder, and then the man’s awake blinking, his eyes searching the unfamiliar room, instinctively flopping and kicking to untangle himself from the sheets.

“Mr. Purcell, hey. It’s me.”

Suddenly alert, he pushes himself away from Roland’s touch and stands. He must have got up too fast, though, cause he staggers, light-headed. Roland puts out a hand to steady him, half-expecting Tom to skitter away from this touch too, but Tom doesn’t. He looks down at the hand splayed across his chest, and lets out a deep, shaky breath that Roland can feel in through his fingertips.

“I let them go,” he mutters, “Wasn’t thinking. Just let them walk away.”

Tom's face is chiseled in suffering, eyes uplifted towards heaven like one of those sad-eyed saints painted at the local Catholic church. Tom’s hand comes up to his chest to clasp Roland's splayed hand, desperately, like he's drowning. Roland hesitates, then pulls him into an clumsy hug before he can think better of it. “You’re okay, Tom,” he says.

Tom tenses in his arms, whether from the hug or the first name, brittle as a dry leaf. “I ain’t.”

“Alright,” he allows. “That don’t mean you don’t deserve to be okay.”

Tom lets out a muffled sob into his shoulder. “I don’t deserve to be better than my kids are.”

There's nothing to say to that. He’s aching to give the man assurance, but he’s afraid that any comfort he provides may just be handing Tom another stick to beat himself with later. Tom brings his hands up. Roland half-expects him to shove Roland’s arms off him, but instead he tightens his fists in Roland’s t-shirt and lets out a shaking gasp. Roland’s acutely aware of the heat radiating off the other man’s body, the shift of lean muscles as he exhales. They stand like that for what must be a couple minutes. Afraid to do more, unwilling to separate.

Then Tom’s looking at him, eyes lit with something inscrutable. He separates enough to sink to the couch, but his hands twist in Roland's t-shirt, tugging Roland along with him, and Roland lets himself be tugged. They end up next to each other on the couch, knocking knees. It feels dangerous, like deciding to walk on train tracks knowing there’s a train coming.

There’s that furrowed brow look of Tom’s, eyes fixed intently on Roland's mouth. His pulse picks up, settles low in his stomach. “The shit I’ve been thinking,” Tom mutters, scrubbing his hands through his curls. “I can’t stop. I think I must be the worst man who ever lived.”

He tells himself he ain’t still thinking about kissing the man. That would be a fucked up thing to be thinking about right now.

“You ain’t. You did your best by them kids.”

Tom’s gaze searches his face, and then Tom leans in. He feels the scratch of two-day old stubble against his face, Tom’s dry lips brushing against his.

Something hot and intoxicating spreads through his veins from the kiss, buzzing under his skin, possessing him and steering him towards something he’s really going to regret come morning.

Still, he considers it. Thinks about how badly Tom deserves to have some pleasure in his life. Selfishly, thinks about his own want, the pulse pounding between his legs, how it been so damn long, and even longer since he knew a man who stirred him up the way Tom does.

Thinks about the very high likelihood that Tom’s going to hate himself, and Roland, for it, if they go any further. He pulls away, leaving Tom open-mouthed and wary-eyed.

“I think you’re gonna regret this, Tom.”

“Prob'ly,” mutters Tom. “I never done a damn thing in my life I haven’t regretted.”

He leans in again. It’d be so easy to loop his arms around his neck, pull Tom towards him, but he ain’t drunk enough to convince himself this is a good idea.

“Tom, wait.” He puts a hand up between their chests.

Tom jerks away, his face crumpling, turns away. He’s trying, and failing, to maintain his composure. “Goddammit, I’m such a fucking joke.”

“You ain’t. I just don’t want you to hate yourself afterward.”

“No helping that, _detective_.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I want to try.”

They sit, having themselves a bit of a stare-off. Tom looks away, makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Goddammit.”

He doesn't know what else to say, so he offers the man some water. 

Tom sighs. “Water’d be nice.”

Roland goes and fills a cup up in the tap. When he steps back into the living room, he’s confronted with the sight of Tom getting his boots on.

“Going somewhere?”

Tom shoots him a look, and returns his eyes to his bootlaces. “Think I’ve got as much sleep as I’m going to get. Gonna head back home.”

“Come on, man. You don’t got to do that.”

“Feel like I’ve embarrassed myself enough in your home. Got to get back to mine.” He double knots his laces with a jerk.

Roland stands there with the glass of water in his hand like an idiot. “This the home you can’t stand to be in?”

Tom shoots him a look.

“I mean, you can go if you want, walk along the highway in the dark, but I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather drive you home myself if we’re doing that. Or you can just stay.”

Tom heaves a sigh, and Roland really thinks he’s going to get up and storm out, but then his lips tug down, and tears start to run down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you got nothing to apologize for, Tom,” he says quickly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“My baby girl, she’s out there and she needs me, and I’m--” he gestures, vaguely, between the two of them. “Bothering you with this shit.”

“You ain’t a bad father, Tom.” Tom’s shaking his head. He presses on. “Looking for some pleasure… that’s just human. A man can’t suffer all the time.”

Tom shoots him a scoffing look that says, _watch me_. “You know I should have figured it out from watching Lucy. Starting affairs seems to be a pretty piss-poor way to make yourself less miserable.”

An affair with all the secrets and lies and none of the fucking. That about covers it. He sure didn’t mean for this to be the arrangement they’ve fallen into, but that looks like that’s where they are. At least Tom’s staying, and even meeting his eyes.

Roland sinks down on the couch, careful to give him space. “You’re a good man, Tom.” Tom shakes his head, dark curls bobbing. He looks wrung out. Still, a moment later, his hand slides over and clasps Roland's. 

“I shouldn’t keep you up,” Tom says at last.

“Yeah. Better turn in for Wayne’s sake. I’m a real asshole when I haven’t gotten my five hours.”

He rises, trying to ignore the ache of want that’s still pounding in his blood. The voice in his head telling him he should have given in. Neither of them have got what they want in a long time, it seems, and the way this case is going, that don't look likely to change.

When he rises in the morning, Tom’s already gone.

__

He wants this shitheeled teen to crack, give up some answers. Wants to finally have something to offer Tom Purcell other than trouble.

That line of thought’s interrupted by the call about the disturbance at Woodard’s place. He and Wayne go.

It’s the job.

__

Twenty minutes after the call first comes through, he’s lying in the dirt expecting death, wondering if the rusted entrails of a junked refrigerator are going to be the last thing he sees. He bites the inside of his cheek hard, tasting dust and blood, hoping pain itself will keep him tethered to this earth, or at least blot out the agony radiating up his leg. He hears Wayne shouting inside, prays he won’t take a bullet to. Someone’s got to solve the case for Tom if he doesn’t make it, and honestly, Wayne’s the better detective. If only one of them gets to see this one to the end….

He hears ambulance sirens in the distance, but it sounds like they’re going the wrong way. They’re growing fainter instead of clearer.

__

He opens his eyes to plains of square ceiling tiles above him, a stiff mattress punishing his backside. Everything aches. Even as doped up as he is, the attempt to move his leg hurts enough to send him cursing the empty hospital room.

A few minutes later, a nurse notices he’s awake, tells him he’s a very lucky man. After a bit of forced charm, she drips out the details of just how lucky. That Woodard took ten men with him before he died. Assures him she’ll call Sargent Hayes right away, since he’s got no family to notify he’s awake.

A doped-up doze late, he opens his eyes to Wayne at his bedside, looking restless and uncomfortable in casualwear.

“You ain’t going to believe this. The case has gotten fucked beyond belief,” he announces by way of greeting.

“What?” he says. Then, “Good to see you too, man. Real glad you’re alive.”

Wayne scoffs. “I knew you’d pull through. You’re too stubborn not to. But, listen,” he says, and tells him what he’s missed. The bag in the crawlspace. The sweater in the incinerator.

“What?” he asks. “Julie Purcell’s dead?” His brain’s rebelling, hoping desperately he heard wrong. “They sure?”

He didn’t hear wrong. He hadn’t held out much hope, but somehow now his brain’s refusing to accept the news, sliding off it like a slope too icy to climb.

Wayne tells him about the fight at Woodard’s, the part after Roland was out for the count. The DA declaring Julie Purcell dead, and Woodard the murderer. Something about the story doesn’t sit right with Roland, but his thoughts snag on something more immediate.

“Does Tom know?” he asks.

Wayne eyes him over, unreadable. “DA’s office called him in, told him their official story yesterday.”

Roland collapses back against his pillow. He remembers giving Tom the news that his son was dead. Imagines him going through that again, the last flicker of hope distinguished. Strangely, he feels like he shirked some responsibility by not being there. He should have been the one.

He becomes aware of Wayne pacing in front of the window, peaking out of it occasionally, like he’s on recon assessing the comings and goings of the visitors to Washington County Memorial Hospital.

“Official story?” he asks Wayne dully. “That mean there’s a real story?”

Wayne snorts, shakes his head. “I don’t know it. That’s what we got to find out. Wasn’t Woodard. I don’t buy that.”

“You know, maybe it’s the hole in my leg, or the ten dead men talking, but I’m thinking it just might be possible he’s our man."

“No,” Wayne says. “We know the kids were meeting somebody, and it wasn’t Woodard.”

Roland’s got to concede that point. Still, he can’t wrap his head around it. There’s too much info coming at him at once, and he can’t begin to sift through it, drugged up as he is.

“We need answers,” Wayne says.

“That family needs answers,” he snaps, sharper than expected. “They don’t need us dicking them around, going against what the DA just told them, telling them actually, no, whoever killed their kids might still be out there.”

Wayne gives him a funny look. “So we don’t tell them. We keep working.” He stands, pulls the jacket that’s been sitting across his legs on. Roland wants to protest, but Wayne’s already clapped his hand on his shoulder. “Rest up,” he says to Roland.

And like that, he’s left alone.

__

He’s been bedridden for five days, hospital bills eating into his budget in ways he prefers not to think about, when he’s finally able to walk on out of the hospital with a pair of crutches.

Roland spends the days at home, watching TV. Officially free to convalesce for as long as he needs.

Tonight he sits on the couch, high on pain meds, and nodding off to game shows as the sun sets.

He’s drowsy, trying to keep thoughts of gunshots and the image of men’s bodies being tossed like rag dolls in the air at bay. He’s had nothing but time to sleep, but since coming home sleep’s been hard to come by without a generous helping of the meds the doctor gave him.

He’s halfway between sleep and annoyance that even he’s solved the puzzle faster than this contestant, when he’s interrupted by a pounding on the door. He jumps nearly a foot in the air and instinctively reaches for the service revolver he’s kept within reach ever since getting home. Good to know in addition to the busted leg he’s gotten jumpiness at loud noises as a souvenir from Woodard’s place.

“Yeah?” he snaps. “Who’s there?”

There’s a pause, and then a low voice speaks through the door. “Detective West?”

His irritation drains like someone let out the stopper on a bath. “Mr. Purcell?”

He hasn’t heard hide nor hair from Tom Purcell. Has considered calling him, once or twice, giving his condolences, but the thought of catching him with Lucy or someone else in the room, giving him something to cover up, stops him.

Besides, he doubts Tom wants to hear from him.

“Sorry to come over like this.” The man sounds drunk. “I just needed to ask you a question.”

Roland’s heart clenches in his chest. He can’t imagine what kind of question would drag a drunk Tom Purcell to his door at night less than a week after learning his daughter is dead. Or maybe he’s got a few ideas, all of them filling him with apprehension.

“Door ain’t locked. Come on in. Ask away.”

There’s a pause, then the door opens and Tom steps inside. He’s wearing the same down jacket he wore last time, but somehow he’s looking thinner in it, more of him carved away by sleeplessness and poor care. His nose is red, from the cold or from drinking. A few flakes of snow are caught in his dark curls.

He looks sheepish, now that he’s here. “I would have called, but I didn’t have your number.”

“That’s all right, Tom,” He gestures towards the chair, “Take a load off.”

Tom wraps his arms around himself like he's cold, his curls shaking with his head. “I’m just here to ask you something. Then I’ll go.”

Roland feels a knot tighten in his stomach.

Tom blinks at the clock above the wall. “Is that the time? Christ, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Hey, it’s never too late.” Incongruent words for the situation. Words rise, desperate to trip out of his mouth. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry we failed your daughter._

Tom doesn’t answer. He’s staring hard at Roland and the ugly bandages wound around his leg. “Is that--I heard you got shot....”

“It looks worse than it is. I’ll be fine.” He’s searching Tom’s eyes, wishing he’d come out of the entryway. “Mr. Purcell, what’s--”

“I need you to tell me why that sonofabitch chose my kids.”

His stomach turns. “What?”

“I need to know. Did he say anything to you? Did he mention them?”

“You don’t want to go chasing details like that--”

“I need to know,” he’s begging, eyes fixed on Roland. “Your people in the DA office won’t tell me shit. They won’t tell me what he did to them--” He chokes, puts his his fist up to his mouth, like he’s going to be sick. “Did he say why he chose my kids? Please. No one else will talk to me.”

“Hey, now, Tom--” He catches the man by the wrist, and they’ve never been on a first name basis, at least not after that first time they met, but he says it now. Tom lets him tighten his grip on his wrist, and lets himself be pulled down onto the couch beside Roland. His eyes are pleading.

“The shit that’s in my head--” he breathes. “You gotta tell me.” A pause. “Roland.”

He wants more than anything to reach out and grab his hands, but he’s keeping his distance. He can only answer. Inadequate, as always. “Tom, I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to any of your questions. I’d give you answers if I had any, but that asshole didn’t say anything to me.”

He thinks of Wayne’s doubts, but shoves them aside. Tom’s asking for clarity now, not more confusion. “I don’t know why it happened.”

Tom starts to cry. Rubs his sleeves across his face, looking pissed at himself. “Shit, I should have known. Sorry to waste your time.”

“Hey,” he says. “Wait.” They both hear the crack of desperation in his voice. Tom seems as alarmed by it as Roland feels. Tom looks around the apartment, seeming to take in all the plates and glasses and prescription pill bottles collected on the coffee table.

Roland tries to recover himself, sound easy. “You can stay a while if you want.”

Tom looks at him. There's sympathy in his eyes, of all the damn things. “Ain’t there anyone here helping you?” he asks softly.

__

Tom makes him dinner. He protests at first, but barely. His leg’s acting up too much for that.

Turns out Tom makes a mean tuna melt. Roland must be hungrier than he realized, because he devours it, and lets Tom make him another, deciding not to comment on the half-uneaten sandwich on Tom’s plate.

They sit watching a game on the TV turned low. It’s the first time they’ve sat side-by-side since….

He ducks his head down further over his plate at the thought to hide the flush that colors his face.

Tom asks him questions about how he’s getting by.

“Got this older neighbor lady who’s been picking up my prescriptions. Think she misses having someone to mother.”

That isn’t, strictly speaking, true. A woman down the hall was neighborly enough to drive him to the pharmacy, but he’s fairly certain she ain’t chomping at the bit to make a habit of it. It’s just the story he told Wayne, to stop him from feeling guilty for not being around to take care of his invalid ass, so he tells it to Tom too.

Tom looks at him, his brows creased like he’s worried. “Folks from church keep giving me casseroles and shit. They’d be happy to help you too. Surprised they aren’t already on it.”

“Maybe they heard about God and me having a bit of a history.”

Tom frowns. “That shouldn’t matter. Hell, if if they don’t come through for you, I can bring you some of mine. I got more casseroles than one man could ever eat.”

“You don’t have to do that.” He pauses. “Ain’t Lucy eating at home?”

He shrugs. “She’s ain’t sticking around much longer. I can feel it.”

It makes sense. If he were Lucy, he’d probably peel out too. Tom’s got every reason to do the same, it occurs to him, and he doesn’t know quite how to feel about that. He nips his thoughts on that in the bud. It’s too soon to press Tom on his plans for the future.

“It’d sure be nice to have something to eat other than frozen TV dinners. I might take you up on that offer.”

They end up watching the end of a football game together, and Roland can’t make his mind focus on any of it. Tom stays beside him, whether out of some perceived sense of duty, or just because he can’t stand to go home. Roland isn’t going to judge.

He looks over when the game ends. Tom’s nodding off, his head thrown back and his throat bare, bobbing palely in the light. He wonders how much Tom has been sleeping lately. Probably not much more than he’s eating. He feels an ache of sympathy.

He decides to let him sleep. He flips over to an old movie to avoid the news, and feels his own eyes start to get heavy. 

The next thing he knows he hears the soft fuzz of static and feels one side of him asleep, a warm weight pressing on him. He opens his eyes and squints. The TV station’s gone off for the night, showing nothing but snow. Tom’s still sleeping, but instead of sitting beside him he’s leaning into him. Must have slid over in the night. His head’s curled into the crooks of his shoulder.

He doesn’t consider waking or moving him, just sits there for a long time, listening to the steady, easy breathing coming out of Tom’s mouth. It’s the most relaxed he’s ever seen the man. Figures it’s worth some pins and needles in the morning, to not interrupt that kind of rest, especially since he knows Tom well enough now to know he’s going to be embarrassed as hell to be woken up, to know Roland knows he fell asleep against him. Best if he just lays back and tries to get some shut-eye himself.

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s the early gray light of morning, and he’s alone in his apartment.

__

He hears another knock on the door two days later, and when it comes, he expects to find Tom on the other side, but it ain’t. It’s a smiling woman holding a couple casserole dishes.

She introduces herself as from the local Catholic church, says the parishioners were thinking of him and his service to the community, and wanted to do something to make his life easier.

“If I’m being honest, Tom Purcell suggested it. Pointed out that we should think of the other people affected by this tragedy outside of the church community. Mentioned you in particular. I can’t believe we weren’t already doing something for our heroes in blue.”

Roland flashes a smile. “I’m grateful for it, ma’am.”

“I can’t imagine what he’s going through right now, but he still thinks of others.”

He nods soberly. “He’s a good man,” he agrees.

Tries not to read too much into the fact that Tom never comes himself.

__

Roland’s walking with a cane now, back at his desk at work. The news reporters that descended on the town are gone, the people calmed down, knowing the monster in their midst is dead, and he’s just the walking wounded. He occasionally gets men thanking him for his service, but mostly he just feels old.

He’s back at work a mere two days before he walks right into the culmination of Wayne’s cold war with the higher-ups over the Purcell case. He leans on his cane the basement and sees Wayne packing his desk up in a file box. Harsh words are exchanged, and then Wayne walks out the door, and that’s the end of their partnership. Case officially closed.

__

It ain’t until he’s nursed his raw feelings for a few days and is making headway into a bottle of cheap scotch, when he finally reads that article written by Ms. Amelia Reardon, schoolteacher. It makes a good case, he has to admit, though somehow that makes it all the more galling, to see the department's failings laid out so plain in cheap newsprint.

It occurs to him that folks in West Finger read this paper too, and might just now be waking up to the possibility the real killer of the Purcell kids is still out there, no matter how many follow-up stories the DA plants saying otherwise.

Folks maybe including the Purcells themselves.

He’s sober enough to drive, and drunk enough to think it’s a good idea. It seems self-evident he needs to talk to Tom about this. That he shouldn’t be alone with this story ricocheting around in his head.

He arrives at the Purcell house just after dusk. The houses on either side still have their Christmas lights up.

He hears raised voices as he walks to the door, and before he can knock or think to turn around and leave the Purcells to it, the door’s pulled open with force.

Tom stands in front of him, first three buttons on his shirt undone, hair wild. He looks nonplussed to find Roland West on his doorstep with a cane. Roland feels a twist in his stomach at the sight of him, and another, more unsettling twist as he spots blood springing from the scraped-raw knuckles of his free hand, that he cradles awkwardly by his side.

“Who the fuck is it--?” asks Lucy, coming into view. She stops dead when she sees Roland. “Jesus, did you call the cops?” she turns on Tom.

“Why the hell you think I’d do that?” Tom snaps. “I don’t know why he’s here.”

Roland inserts himself between them like it’s old times. “Hey, hey! No one called the cops.”

Tom shoots a look at him, questioning, alarmed.

He raises his hands. Should have known coming over’d just make him skittish. “Uh. There was a story in the paper this week. About your case,” he says lamely. Realizes how terrible an idea this was as soon as he says it. Wonders if the weeks on the couch made his brains leak out of his head. “Wanted to check in with you about it.”

“Jesus,” Lucy says, sinking to the couch. “That fucking story. That uppity bitch getting up in our business, like anyone asked her--”

“Hey now,” Roland says. “I understand your frustration, but there’s no cause for insults.” Didn’t think he had too many warm feelings about Ms. Reardon himself over this, but damn if Lucy can’t bring him around to her side. “Ms. Reardon made some claims--there were some accusations made that the case wasn’t run well, and we want to address your concerns.”

Tom’s been standing against the wall, arms crossed. “This ain’t doing much to convince me she’s wrong.”

“Fuck off, Tom. You heard them. t’s over, all right? They’re gone, and no amount of pickin’ that wound’s gonna--”

“She said you all were in a rush to close the case. Does that mean it might not have been him?” Tom asks, interrupting Lucy, staring straight at Roland. “Do you think that?”

And… well, shit. How did he expect this to go? He’d thought he’d find Tom alone, was what he’d thought. Thought that he could explain things, if he could just get alone with him.

“Look, we found strong evidence at the scene that points to Woodard.”

“That ain’t what I asked, detective,” Tom says.

“Oh, shut up,” Lucy moans, hands over her temples. “We’ve done this, you prayed your prayers, you got your answer--”

“Mrs. Purcell--”

“And you,” she lifts her head. “Who asked you? You think we were missing having you around, sticking your noses in our business?”

“No, I don’t suppose you were.” He says evenly.

Roland’s painfully aware of the tightness in his chest and the tension in the room, Lucy’s eyes flicking between them.

“Well, I still got questions.” Tom says. “I want ‘em answered.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Purcell.”

Lucy throws up her hands. “Fine, you know what.” Lucy scoops up her coat off the couch. “You ain’t going to throw this asshole out, I’m leaving. You two have fun digging through our kids’ graves.”

Roland steps aside and lets her brush past, watches as she gets in the car and peels out of there.

“She doesn’t care,” Tom says from his spot, still against the wall. “What really happened to them. Remembering them. I can’t say anything about ‘em without starting a screaming match.”

“Everyone got their own way of grieving,” he says lamely. Not sure how many harsh words about his wife Tom will tolerate, even now.

Tom fixes him with a wary look. “Why’d you come, really?”

“Told you. I was worried how you were taking that story.”

“I been sitting around wondering if it’s true or not,” Tom says, fists clenching at his sides. “You gonna tell me it’s not?”

“Look, you gotta keep this between you and me.”

Tom gestures around the room, vaguely, “You think I don’t know how to do that?” he hisses.

Fair enough. “Look, the truth is, I don't know. None of us do.” He isn’t planning to say it as plainly as this, but, hell. He already took professionalism out back and shot it long ago. God knows the man deserves the truth, as best as he can tell it. “Wayne had other leads he wanted to follow. I don’t know if he was onto something or not. I wasn’t gonna burden you with some vague feelings that he might not be our guy, but the article kind of took that out of my hands.”

“ _What_ feelings, dammit?” he snaps.

He answers honestly as he can, without specifically mentioning any white women and black one-eyed men. No sense giving Tom potential suspects to worry over. He even owns up to Wayne leaving.

“But you’re still there,” Tom says. “Are you gonna keep looking?”

Roland exhales. “As far as State PD is concerned, the case is closed.” He taps his leg with the cane. “ And I’m chained to a desk for the future. Even when I wasn’t… Wayne was the man who was cracking all the leads on that case.”

Tom’s face looks like it’s about a second away from crumpling into tears. “So you’re telling me you can’t do shit.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he says. “That’s a promise, son. Just, so you know what we’re up against.” He feels fucking useless, all his failings as a cop admitted to and display for the person most affected by them. “I don’t want to promise you resolution that ain’t going to come.”

Tom sighs. Rubs his hands over his eyes. “What else is new. My kids are dead. Ain’t nothing else that matters.”

He scrubs the tears from his eyes with the palm of his hands. On his right hand, the cuts on his first knuckles open up again, thin streams of blood oozing down the back of his hand.

“How’d you hurt your hand?” he asks.

Tom shakes his head, looks like he’s fighting back tears. For a second Roland doesn’t think he’s going to answer. “Fucking stupid. Punched a wall. Made a hole in the drywall and scraped up my hand.” He glances, ashamedly, in the direction of the kitchen, and through the entryway Roland can see a hole in the wal, shoulder-height.

“Ought to get that taken care of,” he says. “Come on.”

Tom nods mutely, staring at his hand. Roland knows where he needs to go. He’s been over every inch of the man’s house after all, but he lets Tom lead him to the bathroom, point out the first aid kit below the sink.

After that, Tom sort of zones out for a while as Roland applies iodine to the scratches. He makes a face and looks away as it sting, then lets Roland wrap his hand in gauze, his fingers twitching occasionally as Roland brushes his hand with his fingers. When the gauze is tied off, he looks down at the wrapping, dazed. Roland makes to move his hand away, but Tom catches it, holding on. He’s looking at him with that longing look in his eye again. Like he wants to ask for something. In that moment, Roland would give it to him.

Instead, Tom pulls away, slips by him without a word and back to the living room and collapses on the couch without a word.

Roland drifts after him. Looking around the empty living room, noticing how full it is of half-packed boxes. _Who’s moving out?_ He thinks, anxiously.

He says, “You leaving?”

“Some of that’s Lucy’s. But yeah, I’m moving on.” He meets Roland’s eyes, like a challenge. “What have I got here?”

The knot in the base of his throat tightens. “Soon?” he asks.

“Was gonna stick around. But I don’t know now...” he swallows. “Everyone in this town’s watching me like I’m the evening news.”

He reaches out to put a hand on Tom’s hand, but Tom pulls away, something hard in his eyes.

“And you know the stories going around about me. Maybe you should steer clear from now on unless you want to end up a part of them.”

“You’re always welcome. I told you,” he says.

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want another life on my conscience.”

“What happened to your kids wasn’t your fault.”

“How the fuck do you know that? Seems you don’t know much of anything about it.” His voice is rough with anger and unshed tears. “You think about how unbearable it is, having you around all the time?”

“I suppose I can imagine some of it,” he says carefully.

“So maybe you should leave me be.” He turns his face away, trying to surreptitiously wipe his eyes with his bandaged hand.

Roland nods, heaves himself up on his cane and heads to the door. Roland turns before he opens the door. “If I find any answers I’ll give you a call. Won’t come over again.”

__

At work, in between cases, he tries tracking leads on one-eyed black men. Calling hospitals, looking at workplace injury reports going back forty years. Works the case slowly on his night off. Makes a list of names. Asks questions. Leads emerge, then evaporate on closer inspection. It’s lonely, thankless work done in that basement office that used to seem a lot less gloomy when he wasn’t the only one in it.

He makes his last phone call, marks his last potential name off the list. If there’s any more one-eyed black men in the county, they ain’t on any official accounting he can get ahold of.

The trail goes cold.

__

His leg heals up as well as it’s ever gonna. He’s got too many aches and complaints lingering from his rodeo days to kid himself that this one’s going back to normal. But he at least gives up the cane by the end of January.

Wayne never calls. Sure, he could call Wayne, but some stubborn sense of irritation keeps him from doing that.

He hears through the grapevine that Lucy Purcell has left town. Never hears anything about Tom. Resists the urge to drive by his house, just to see that he’s still there. Still alright, if that’s even the word for it.

__

One day he gets as far as West Finger before deciding Tom would hate him for it if he saw him.

He goes to the Sawhorse instead, where there’s no shortage of pool and shouting and men and women making eyes through the smoke. Nothing to recommend it but cheap whiskey and enough neon to give a man a headache.

He sits at the bar, gives short answers to the one woman with permed hair and jeans cut to flatter who wandered over to strike up a conversation. It’s only when she mentions it that he remembers it’s Valentine’s Day. She asks if he’s lonely. He responds vaguely, giving the strong impression of a man waiting on someone specific, so she won’t feel insulted, and it seems to work, cause after a while she drifts on to another man down the bar, one who looks thrilled to return her advances.

__

He’s standing outside the bar, bundled in the cold night air, watching the shapes of bodies moving through fogged up panes. He’s trying to sober up enough in the cold before driving home. He’s lighting up a second cigarette when he hears a vaguely familiar pair of voices, belonging to two men leaving the bar. Two guys who couldn’t look more like your standard West Finger residents if they tried, right on down the coveralls. They turn to say their goodbyes, and Roland gets a good look at their faces. One of the men heads out to the parking lot, driving off in a pickup, but the other lingers outside. He knocks a cigarette out of a half-empty pack and lights it, puts it in his mouth, acknowledges Roland with a nod.

Roland decides he ain’t done for the night.

“Joe, right?” he says casually. “From Wilson’s Body Works?”

The man gives him an lazy half-nod and a smile. “Do I know you?”

He doesn’t notice the fist Roland swings at him until it’s too late.

He staggers back, a string of curses falling out of his mouth, shocked like a man who’s got no experience hurting.

He swings his fist again, and knocks the man off-balance. It’s the best he’s felt in days. “Make you feel less limp-dicked, huh?” he says, hauling the man up. “Ruining a man reputation? Kicking him when he’s down? Driving him out of his job?”

“What the fuck--?”

Roland slams his fist into the man’s nose, and he doesn’t say anything, but as he goes down, his big body off-balance, he reaches out blinding, grabbing Roland’s jacket front and taking him down with him. His bad knee takes the brunt of hitting the pavement. Pain goes off like a gunshot.

Roland swings at him again. Joe tackles him, knocks him back on the sidewalk. Roland lands hard on his back, and pain explodes in the back of his head. He doesn’t care, he keeps punching out at the guy, feels his fists connect with bone.

He hears men’s voices behind him, footsteps on pavement, and he’s being pulled out from under the guy.

People are shouting, demanding answers.

“He punched me out of nowhere,” Joe shouts, holding his nose. “Motherfucker.”

He struggles against his new attackers, but there’s too many of them and they’ve got his arms. Roland laughs. “You know what you did.” Feels blood trickling down his mouth. “Fucking asshole, you brought this on yourself.”

“What happened?” a new voice asks. He turns his head, and it’s the bar owner who’s been slipping it to Tom’s wife, and he laughs again, is about to share some words with him, but the throbbing in the back of his head gets to him.

“Wait, I know you,” Joe says. Someone’s handed him bar towel, and Roland watches red spread through the blinding white with every word. “You’re that cop from the town hall. With Purcell.”

Tasting copper in his mouth, he doesn’t attempt to deny it. His brain feels like it got knocked loose in his head, like its sloshing around in there, knocking against the sides of his skull.

The bar neon’s starting to go hazy and grow auras in his sight. He opens his mouth with effort, then passes out.

__

He’s eased back to waking life by the purr of an engine. He’s in the passenger seat of a car, and when he opens his eyes he sees Wayne.

Wayne glances at him, that deep-in-thought look on his face, then returns his eyes to the road. “You’re awake.”

“Purple, my man,” Roland says, trying to focus on the light blurring by. His brain’s still swimming. “Not that I ain’t grateful,” he touches the swelling on his eye tenderly, “but what am I doing in your car?”

“That bar still had my card from before. Called me up, said I could take you home, or they could call the cops.”

History repeats itself. Shit. “Course. Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

Wayne’s silent, just staring straight ahead, disapproval radiating off him. Which seems a bit rich, Roland thinks, coming from a man who was always happy to make use of Roland’s fists when it came to extralegal interrogation of suspects in barns.

They sit in silence, Roland trying to think of something to say for himself, when Wayne glances sideways. “You remember what happened?”

Roland tenderly touches his swollen lip. He remembers exactly what happened, and a pit of guilt is opening in his stomach. “Can’t say I do. Guess I just drank too much.”

Wayne makes a vague sound in the back of his throat.

“It’s good to see you,” Roland says, filling the silence with something. “How’s Miss Reardon? You two set a date for the wedding yet?” Then, remembering what day it is, “Shit, hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Wayne looks sidelong at him, and that’s when he knows he’s in trouble. His look is cold. Unimpressed. _Don’t bullshit me._

“The guy you hit was still hanging around when I got there. Wanted me to know how lucky the State PD all were that he ain’t pressing charge. Also told me he used to work with Tom Purcell.”

Roland stays silent. Throbbing pressure’s building in the back of his head. He’s feeling no small amount of resentment at the tone Wayne’s taking with him.

“He said you’d met before, that night of the town hall at the community center. You and Tom Purcell.”

“Yeah,” Roland manages. No point in playing innocent now. Just waiting for him to get to the damn point, so his head can have silence again.

“Told me there was a conflict between himself and Mr. Purcell then. Told me you referenced the matter when you were beating the shit out of him. I asked him what the dispute was.”

Fuck, Roland’s the dumbest asshole who ever lived, he thinks. Realizing, too late, that he’s betrayed Tom’s trust. Tom was right to push him away.

Wayne’s still staring straight forward, refusing to meet Roland’s eyes. “He told me some shit it would have been real useful to know when we started this investigation.”

He glowers at Wayne. “You done?”

Wayne shakes his head. “So I guess it’s true.”

“Fuck,” Roland mutters. “You gonna believe what some inbred peckerwood tells you? What kind of stories you’d think he’d tell about you, you worked together?”

The movement’s sudden. Wayne jerking the wheel, pulling them over to the side of the road and throws the car into park, the windshield wipers still clapping away in the dead silence descending in the car.

“First, I don’t have to imagine, asshole. I live it every day.” Wayne shakes his head, looking disgusted. “I couldn’t figure out why you’d know all that about Tom and keep it from me. Then I got to thinking about the other shit between you and him that wasn’t adding up. Him recognizing you. You getting all cagey about it.”

He hates this. Feels like being pinned to a vivisection table, having his most vulnerable parts prodded. “Say what you’re saying,” he snaps.

“What happened between you and Tom Purcell?”

“You got some reason for thinking it’s any of your goddamn business?”

That’s as much as an admission, and Wayne knows it. He settles back in the passenger seat, elbow braced against the steering wheel, studying him.

“I knew you were hiding something, but I didn’t know what. Couldn’t imagine it’d be anything that important. Not you. Failure of imagination on my part. Didn’t think it was possible, you undermining the investigation.”

“Undermining the investigation? Are you fucking--”

“He was a goddamn suspect,” Wayne snaps. A semi-truck roars past, shaking the whole car with it.

Anger’s spreading down the back his neck. “ Come the fuck on, man, he didn’t kill his kids and you know it.”

Wayne unbuckles his seatbelt, glares. Roland wonders if they’re supposed to get out of the car now and have a throwdown. He’s too damn tired for that, personally.

“You sure?” Wayne says coldly. “I would have looked a hell of a lot closer at him, if I had known he was keeping secrets. You hid a fucking motive from me.”

“A motive? Jesus Christ, listen to yourself--”

“Yeah, a motive. Keeping a double life under wraps. Seen it a hundred times. That shit can make a man do all sorts of things," he rubs his hand across his face, pissed. "Case in point.”

Through the red wave of anger clouding his mind, he registers something else, something like hurt. He can't believe he used to.... “ _Double life_? Fuck you, man.”

Wayne’s eyes flicker for a second. Might be he feels some guilt for that low blow. No way to tell, because he looks away.

Roland ain’t in the mood to let it go. “Here, let me tell you about my double life. I suck dick. I almost sucked his dick. Want details? I wouldn’t want you to think I’m keeping anything from you. Can’t believe I didn’t tell you to begin with, when you’re being so reasonable about it.”

That actually seems to hit home. Something flickers behind Wayne’s eyes, before he waves his hand. “Don’t put this shit on me,” he snaps. “You don’t get to lie this whole time, leave our asses hanging out to get handed to us by any cross-examiner worth a damn, and then blame me.”

“You’ve already walked away from the case, so what does it matter now?”

Wayne grips the wheel. “Thought I could trust you.”

He feels a migraine forming behind his right eye. Shit. “Yeah, well. You want to talk about trust? You want to talk about thinking with your dick? I trusted you not to throw away our partnership on the first woman turns your head.”

Roland notices the man’s fists tightening. Good, he’d love to end this conversation in a fight. Blot all thoughts of Tom from his memory in physical pain. But Wayne doesn’t give him the satisfaction, just shakes his head, eyes unreadable. “There's more to life than being a good company man. Sometimes you meet someone who makes you realize there's higher principles at stake than climbing ranks."

He nearly says something he might regret, but bites it back. Just glowers. “Fuck you."

“You hid evidence from me.”

“Shit, do you even remember who you were looking for, before all the shit with Woodard? Your white woman and your one-eyed black man? You remember that Tom Purcell is neither of those things?”

“That’s not--”

“You know I went looking for them after you left? So don’t tell me I don’t care about this case too.”

That seems to startle him into genuine curiosity. He turns his face toward Roland. “You searched?”

“Yeah, man. Found nothing but dead ends. You shouldn’t have walked away. You were always better at finding shit than me.”

Wayne makes a face at that. He starts the car up, steering them back on the road. After a stretch on the highway, he says, “I did what I had to do.”

“That’s all any of us are doing,” Roland snaps. “You ain’t special.”

He glances over to Wayne. “So put me out of my misery and tell me if you’re going to report this to Jones and Kindt.”

Wayne keeps his eyes on the road. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

The tension in his gut unwinds by a fraction. “You’re a good man, Purple."

"Yeah, well. I’m still pissed at you,” Wayne mutters, as he steers the car down Roland’s street.

“So you know, the feeling’s mutual."

When Wayne pulls into the parking spot beneath his apartment, he thinks about saying something, extending some kind of olive branch, but he doesn't. Can’t figure out what to say. Before he can slam the door closed behind him, Wayne says, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

That cold, steady gaze bores into him. “You gonna do this shit, be more careful.”

He shrugs. “You’re the only one who’s figured it out so far. You should probably still be using those skills on murder cases. I hear there's one you think ain't solved yet. Stay cool, Purple.” He slams the door and walks to his front door. By the time he unlocks it Wayne’s already gone.


End file.
